It was never supposed to work. She was never supposed to… die…

But the injuries were too great. Too much blood spilled.

Now she’s dead. And it’s all my fault.

Dahlia and I shared the stage at the theater downtown. God, was she talented. Always securing the leading role, embodying each character with effortless grace and a radiant smile. Her tanned skin and curly blonde hair, a beautiful chaos, somehow always elegant.

But after years—years—I grew weary of living in her shadow.

I was great. But she was spectacular.

I was pretty. But she was beautiful.

How I craved her curves, her soft green eyes. I longed for the standing ovation, the accolades that were hers alone.

Eventually, my envy festered into something darker. I devised a plan, one so wicked and fatal that I questioned my own resolve. But I went through with it.

I knew she was deathly allergic to poppy flowers. So I concealed some in a bouquet, delivering it anonymously.

Reflecting now, it seems so petty.

That night, during the final scene, she collapsed on our makeshift balcony. She rolled, fell—right onto another actor wielding a sword. None of us realized how sharp those “play” swords could be.

Not until it pierced her sternum.

I leaped from my position, rushing to her side, desperate to staunch the blood flowing from her wound. It was never supposed to escalate like this. I was blind to the depths of my actions.

The audience, hundreds of eyes, witnessed my anguish as I screamed for my friend, shoving away anyone who dared approach. I did everything I could. But it was not enough.

Now, I’m known as the Girl Wearing Crimson. The girl who watched her friend die, standing in her blood-soaked dress for hours afterward—all born from my unspeakable jealousy.

If Dahlia exists somewhere beyond, I know she gazes down at me, not with anger, but pity.

And maybe that’s the worst of all.